Borovoye nature reserve

When the journalist Alia found out that we were staying an extra day to visit the Borovoye nature reserve, she asked if she could accompany us. As agreed, she picks us up at 11:00 am. Marat and Gauhar are also ready and waiting for us in their fully loaded car. Because Marat wants to take every opportunity to talk to us, we should of course ride with him. The few things we have with us no longer fit in the trunk, which is stuffed to the brim. Ancient patched plastic bags literally spill out. A gas bottle, cooking utensils of all kinds, a large thermos flask, raw potatoes, a thick sausage, tomatoes, cucumbers, baby carriages and a few other indefinable things are packed somewhat chaotically for the long trip to Kazakhstan’s most popular excursion destination.

While I take a seat next to Marat in the front passenger seat, Tanja crouches down next to Gauhar in the fully loaded rear seats. A thick blanket is stuffed in front of the rear window. Gauhar has dressed up in Kazakh style and wears a bright red headscarf. While she holds her little daughter Dinar on her lap and breastfeeds her, she laughs openly at me. Everyone is in an excursion mood as the engines of the two cars are started and we leave the city behind us.

It’s been a really cloudy day for a long time. The temperature has dropped dramatically and it smells like rain. Not good weather for such an event. Marat, his eyes sparkling at the mention of the word Borovoye, is somewhat disappointed. “Too bad, the weather is bad today. I can’t understand why this always happens on my days off?” he says, laughing out loud. The landscape changes again. Reaching the Switzerland of Kazakhstan, we see the first real mountains in weeks, which stretch their up to 900 meter high ridges out of the flat steppe into the sky. Surrounded by magnificent green spaces, more and more lakes let their smooth surfaces shine in the light of day. The road winds its way over gentle hills through increasingly dense spruce and birch forests. “That’s Borovoye,” enthuses Marat and Gauhar smiles contentedly, while Dinar sleeps happily in her arms, satiated with breast milk.

At a parking lot we meet Alia, who has brought her two children and a photographer with her. “You don’t mind if we document your visit here for our newspaper, do you?” she asks politely. “No, no, take as many pictures as you like,” we reply. We climb a small hill in the wake of our Kazakh companion and amidst a crowd of countless tourists. Masses of small flags and scraps of cloth hang from the trees. “This is for the fulfillment of wishes. You have to do it too. Do you have any fabric?” Alia wants to know. “No,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders. She immediately takes out a fine cloth handkerchief and tears it in two for us. We can stop them just in time to avoid destroying their beautiful cloth. “See those angular ridges back there? That’s the sleeping soldier. There’s a story about him,” Marat explains and while he tries to tell us, I try to recognize a sleeping soldier in the mountain peaks. The people around us are exuberant and cheerful. The cameras are in full operation here. The triggers are pressed incessantly, causing flashes and buzzes. As soon as we have admired the sleeping soldier, we get back into the car and drive to the next attraction, the ship. Again, I have to let my imagination run wild to recognize the ship in the fog in the rocks. At a parking lot there are stalls selling all kinds of trinkets, figurines, wooden combs, colorful pictures, key rings and much more. Holidaymakers can have their photo taken here in original Kazakh warrior garb, with bows and arrows, knives and shields. Large live eagles sit on wooden perches. Their heads are covered with leather hoods so that they cannot see anything. Their owners place the sad-looking kings of the air on the arms of visitors, who are then proudly photographed standing in front of the camera.

As we continue through the nature reserve, which is teeming with people, we reach a lake on the shore of which is a rocky mountain about a hundred meters high. Another fantasy image is enthroned at the top. This time it’s a slong (elephant) “Do you recognize it?” Marat wants to know. “Sure,” I say, because the rock does indeed bear a striking resemblance to the proboscis animal. Pedal boats can be rented for 2,000 tenge per hour on the shores of the mountain lake. A small stone island is the destination of recreational captains who immortalize their existence by painting the rocks from top to bottom.

Trapped behind iron bars for the rest of your life!

The press photographer uses every opportunity to take pictures of the two German cyclists. We now feel like stars who are accompanied at every turn. “Would you like to visit the zoo?” asks Alia. As we are tired by now, we would actually like to sit down in one of the cafés, but we can’t embarrass our companions. They would feel compelled to invite us. As they don’t earn much and it’s expensive here, we don’t go to the zoo. Although Tanja and I have visited many zoos around the world, this one really takes our breath away. The cages are small, old and totally filthy. Two porcupines live on a rusty tin floor, fenced in by rusty wire mesh. They look at us with sad eyes. A bird hops around alone and lost in a large, dirty birdhouse. Its feathers are matted and its little eyes speak volumes. The acrid stench of excrement hits us from another pen. Here, too, there is a small furry animal locked up without a partner whose name I don’t know. My mood sinks from kennel to kennel. It’s actually been a nice day so far, but such a horrible animal prison makes me sick to my stomach. Eagles sit in birdhouses that are too small. One of them holds his broken wing in a grotesque manner. The pack animal wolf is also kept in solitary confinement. He has just three meters at his disposal, which he uses to run back and forth incessantly. Then we come to the bears. To the amusement of the spectators, a keeper is feeding the poor predators with potato chips. The brown bears stretch and stretch to reach the tasty morsels. Impatiently, they stick their large paws through the metal bars of their much too small prison, the tin floor of which is smeared with their excrement. When their caretaker puts a sweet between his lips and a bear sucks it away with his tongue, the people laugh enthusiastically. To top it all off, the two omnivores are given a piece of chewing gum. I stand there spellbound and can’t believe what’s happening. Visitors to the zoo throw potato chips, chocolate and whatever else they are carrying into the cages. The predators grab it with their large claws and stuff everything into their mouths. “Ha! Ha! Ha! Hi! Hi! Hi! Look at the look on his face. Oh, he seems to like it! Come on, give him some more!” they shout. I turn away in disgust. There is a lack of in-depth basic knowledge. Many of the visitors do not see how they contribute to torturing the animal even more with their gifts. Many people don’t seem to think about the fact that not only humans but also animals have a right to a species-appropriate life. Many people don’t seem to think about the fact that animals are our closest relatives. That they too can suffer, be in pain and be sad. I wonder what these unfortunate creatures have done to get such a life sentence? I wonder why we humans are often so insensitive? What is wrong with us? Why do we only see our own advantage and not the suffering of others? The suffering right next door? Why do we take the right to torture animals like this?

Cruel breeding and factory farming!

My thoughts turn over and suddenly find a connection to factory farming. I stand paralyzed by the broken wire fence and look at the scene as if it were from a science fiction movie. Unexpectedly, I ask myself why we humans don’t do more to give chickens, turkeys, cattle, pigs and other farmed animals that we cram into us every day a better existence during their short lives? Who gives us the right to continue to raise breeding animals in cruel mass husbandry here in Germany? Why do we not know that turkeys, for example, are grotesquely misshapen and handicapped by overly rapid growth? Why don’t we know that the world’s heaviest turkeys are fattened in Germany? Why do we not know that 25 years ago a fattening turkey reached a final weight of around eleven kilograms and today weighs almost twice that?

Tanja and I leave this place of horror in a hurry. My thoughts continue to roll over, are triggered, overtake each other, form further bridges to my homeland and do not want to condemn the people here in Kazakhstan. I am thinking of the torturous breeding of turkeys that I recently read a report about. I think of how these cramped birds, always fed with the same power pellets, attack each other due to lack of space and sometimes peck each other to death. All just to get wonderful meat on the plate. I think of how their beaks are cut off because of this, a mutilation in which nerve fibers, connective tissue and blood vessels are severed, resulting in pain and constant irritation. I think of how such facts are concealed so that we all believe we are roasting the finest meat from happy birds in the oven. None of us humans seem to want it to be true that breeding animals are stuffed with vaccinations and medicines during their short lives. That the vermin are treated with aspirin and tranquilizers to suppress their pain and aggression. “Did you like it?” Marat asks me with a good-natured smile. “No,” I reply, snapped out of my negative thoughts.

Before we drive back to Kokchetav, Marat is keen to have a picnic on the lakeshore. We lug all the kitchen equipment to the lake. Thick, dark clouds are gathering. The freshly cut raw potatoes are swimming in sunflower oil, ready to be fried, when the gates of heaven open. We quickly pack everything up again and throw it into the dirty trunk. “Let’s eat in the car,” Marat suggests. Crammed in between too much luggage, we are now sitting in the passenger compartment. The windows fog up immediately due to the moisture. Large raindrops are drumming on the tin roof. Marat cuts white bread. He spreads a slice very thickly with mayonnaise, covers it with slices of pork sausage about two centimetres thick and hands it to Gauhar, who hungrily devours what is on offer. “Why don’t you have sausage and mayonnaise on your bread?” Marat wonders. “I like it best with tomatoes and cucumber,” I reply and am glad not to have to eat his concentrated load of fat.

As soon as we have finished our snack by the lake, it stops raining. We stuff the rest of the food into the trunk and leave Borovoye. Marat gets lost a few times on the way home, which is why the journey takes longer than planned. Nevertheless, we are glad to have undertaken this interesting and at the same time unconventional excursion.

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